


RED's Fall

by justanordinaryreader



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ancient History, Earthquakes, Latin, Minor Character Death, Pompeii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:49:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6559921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanordinaryreader/pseuds/justanordinaryreader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dark cloud of dust hung over the city. As I ran towards home it filled my lungs, choking me, making it harder to breathe as I pushed myself faster. Home. Home is a funny thing— a place I renounced for so long may cease to exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	RED's Fall

A dark cloud of dust hung over the city. As I ran towards home it filled my lungs, choking me, making it harder to breathe as I pushed myself faster. Home. Home is a funny thing— a place I renounced for so long may cease to exist.  
My name used to be Rufinus Egnatius Drusus. Now I am only Rufinus. I was the only son of a pompous duumvir and frail mater. My father ruled with an iron first over the city, implementing harsh punishments to criminals and frequently misusing public funds for the expansion of his own greed. Our massive estate is enough testament to that. I say “our,” but home for me has never been confined within those many walls.   
Strict though he was outside the home, my father’s severity only worsened inside. My sisters and mother never listened to my grievances, for they were convinced nothing ill had transpired between me and my father. Before the incident, I was accustomed to the shame in which my father looked at me.   
He looked at me only with contempt, for I had not been one to excel in my courses on rhetoric and language. In fact, my sisters did better than I, though they needn’t learn as intensively. I was never the son he wanted, but the one he was dealt by chance. Needless to say, when I reached the age of fifteen, the day of my liberalia saw my father begrudgingly accept my donning of the toga virilis.   
Rather, I preferred to create. “A slave’s trade,” my father called it. In our house it wasn’t noble for a man to be anything but a public official. I didn’t care. I loved the mixing of pigments, the feel of freedom from creating something from nothing, of arranging stones to create a constellation of artistry.  
While I still preferred “slave work” to speeches, I wished to gain my father’s approval, but only of my talent. I fought his ruling, refusing to attend forum meetings and feigning ill when he realized I had not attended an assembly in over a fortnight. I disagreed with the ways in which he ruled, a topic that often came to a head in a heated debate at home. Nearing my twenty-fifth year, I devised my largest denouncement of my father yet— a plan to usurp his rule from inside the ordo itself.   
A windy day in March saw my official declaration of office. Announcements had been prepared, a toga candida specially made. All that was left was my personal appearance. My mother oversaw the team of household slaves appointed to prepare me. It was a day in which she was well enough to do so, not having succumbed to the illness which so frequently befell her. However, I solemnly requested that my youngest sister be the spearhead, as she had been the only of my three siblings not yet married, and my favorite of the girls besides.   
I quietly took the young Lucilia aside at the start of my transformation and asked of her one thing. I plead her to strip my hair of its natural auburn hue, to replace it with that of beechwood ash. Eyes wide, she accepted. It was not uncommon for men and women alike to color their hair. However, as a man exemplifying tradition, my father did not allow it. Of course, this rule was only directed toward me. The changing of my hair was my defining act of subtle rebellion.   
At stroke of noon I appeared before the people’s assembly to make my declaration. The people of the city knew my father, of course. The citizens were either blind to the evils that had transpired in his rule or they were dense enough to accept them. As his son, I was slated to follow in his footsteps.  
I won the support of the comitium in unanimity, and I was to begin my term on the first of July. Unbeknown to them, a major regime change had occurred. As I stepped down from the podium, the people swarmed me, congratulating me on my success. I paid them no attention. The sole man whose reaction I sought was nowhere to be found. I waded through the crowd, intent on heading home and announcing victory to the house. A wave of murmurs ran through the crowd. I looked over to see my father striding up to the podium, striped toga flaring around his ankles.   
Confused, I halted my exit. The elections had ended, so why was he to speak? “Romans, lend me your ears!” His deep voice boomed and echoed throughout the Basilica. “I call to you now to hear my words. You have just chosen my son Rufinus Egnatius Drusus to be one of two ruling aediles.” The crowd roared its approval, but was quickly silenced by my father’s stormy expression. “But have you not noticed the color of his hair, nor the stains upon his hands?” he cried.   
I froze. In truth, the night before my declaration I had been painting a scroll of papyrus in secret, taking care not to spill any of the pigment. I did, however, make a mess of my hands. I was usually vigilant about erasing any evidence of my illicit hobby. Though as I worked late into the night, cleaning had slipped my weary mind. My grooming staff, too, had failed to remove the last traces of ochre and cinnabar from my palms.   
There was a collective shift in the assembly’s demeanor as every man turned towards my frozen form. This was bad. Even the lowest of citizens was aware of my father’s traditions. They knew he looked down upon creative acts being done by wealthy men. They thought he had raised a perfect son, one who was bent to his father’s will, who renounced the arts in favor of government.  
I turned to look up at him. I couldn’t speak against him so soon. Not here. Not with the whole of Pompeii watching. I moved to leave. As I did so, my father’s eyes shifted from my hands to my hair. In my twenty-five years, never before had I seen an expression of unfathomable fury. Breathe caught in my throat, I slowly strode up to the podium, keeping my eyes trained forward. “Father,” I mumbled, “please, not here.”  
I knew my hair color would spark some anger, but nothing akin to this. “Rufinus Egnatius Drusus,” he spat. “You have sullied the name of the Drusus family. For years I could ignore the pigment stains upon your clothes, knowing the habit would be forgotten once your formal education began.” We locked eyes for a moment before I looked away. So he didn’t know that I had been painting still for years after. He didn’t know that I myself had created the magnificent work in our eastern triclinium. He had no idea that the design on the floor of the front atrium was of my own work. He continued, “But this is unforgivable. Your family-given auburn curls spoke of our wealth, a symbol of our status. To denounce that is to denounce the family.” My eyes hurriedly flicked back up to him.  
“Citizens of Pompeii,” he addressed the lingering crowd. “This man is no longer of the Drusus clan. He has been an embarrassment to the Drusus family, unworthy of its name.” He sneered down at me, struck down where I stood. “From this moment on, you are simply to be Rufinus, a man of no ties, and forever unwelcome in the house of Diocletianus Egnatius Drusus!”  
With that statement, the world collapsed. The ground began to shake and quiver, rendering my father unsteady on his platform. I had thought this was in my head though as I looked around wildly, realization leant me the knowledge that no, this was not some mental imagery. I tore my eyes away from my father’s and ran, stumbling out of the forum.  
The earth quaked, rocking the very foundations we stood upon. Resounding crashes assaulted my ears as my head whipped around, and I saw momentous chunks of marble rain down from the neighboring buildings. Even the nearby home of the renowned Augustales fell victim to nature’s tremors.  
A single thought floored me, effectively stopping me in my hurry— what if something had happened to my mother and Lucilia? That was enough to get me moving again, legs pumping faster than before, lungs heaving in my chest.  
I ran through the streets, avoiding debris and rubble, hurdling over fallen columns and people alike. The trembling had yet to cease, but I was determined. I looked up to see a dark cloud of dust hanging over the city, no doubt churned up from the fallen architecture. As I ran towards home it filled my lungs, choking me, making it harder to breathe as I pushed myself faster.  
Rounding a corner I was finally there. I looked to where our—no, this home was no longer mine— large estate stood. Or, once stood. In its place lie a massive pile of cement and marble, mixing in a twisted parody of the mosaics I once created. Only the faun statue remained, seemingly unperturbed on its podium outside the house. The ground has ceased movement, but my body quaked still.   
A hint of purple fabric caught my eye amidst the wreckage. Lucilia had been wearing a purple tunic this morning. In a frenzy I bent over, trying to shift some of the rubble away. Dear gods, please don’t let it be her. I furtively pushed away smaller slabs of what I recognized as the floor, until I stopped yet again. Lying before me was an arm. A sliver of dark skin, shade exactly like my own. A bony wrist, not yet reaching the peak of maturity. A telltale golden bracelet.   
I fell to my knees and wept.

**Author's Note:**

> A note about some of the language and history:
> 
> duumvir- a political position in the ancient Roman world. Basically one of the highest positions in the political hierarchy  
> mater- Latin for "mother"  
> liberalia- a celebration similar to a bar mitzvah or quinceanera where a young boy transitions into manhood  
> toga virilis- translates in Latin to "toga of manhood"; symbol of liberalia  
> ordo- the actual office in which a duumvir rules; the main governing body  
> toga candida- a special toga with a telltale purple stripe worn when in office or declaring office  
> comitium- the people's assembly  
> Basilica- place within the Roman forum in which most giverning business and assemblies took place  
> aediles- junior governing official; position must be held prior to becoming a duumvir  
> triclinium- dining room  
> atrium- in a typical house of a wealthy Roman, what we'd think of as the living room main entryway  
> Augustales- a class of governing body only men who had been former slaves could hold
> 
> If you get the chance, or feel like doing some extra research, I alluded to several famous places in Pompeii: the Forum, House of the Faun, and the House of the Vettii.


End file.
